


to make stars ignite

by CodePurple



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Lesbian Character, M/M, Reincarnation, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:13:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21775000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodePurple/pseuds/CodePurple
Summary: Anabel Juniper is, above all things, a weird little girl. This has caused a number of issues.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 28
Kudos: 106
Collections: A Collection of Beloved Inserts





	1. nebulae

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to tmsi! it's garbage, but i hope yall enjoy

Jessamine Preciado is 17 when she dies. It doesn’t particularly matter how she dies. Perhaps she dies of a disease. Cancer, maybe. Or maybe she is a victim in a car crash. Maybe she committed suicide. It simply does not matter, in the grand scheme of things.

Jessamine is reincarnated. She does not remember her death, but she remembers being Jessamine.

The soul is reincarnated into the daughter of Maria and Otger Juniper, Anabel. Her parents are loving, if a bit strange themselves. They are delighted to have a daughter, delighted to be married, and delighted to start a new life as a family.

This does not last. 

After their deaths, Anabel is placed into Wool’s Orphanage in London.

* * *

Anabel Juniper. She was a weird little thing. Blonde. She was raised here in the orphanage, but she had an American lilt to her voice. Her voice, which could often be heard spouting curses and little else. One of her eyes lazed, resulting in quite a bit of teasing. She wore glasses.

She wasn't scared of him. Well, that wasn't quite true. She  _ was _ , but not for the same reason those other children were. He wasn't sure why. They’d never actually spoken-- she barely spoke to anyone, except as a comeback. She seemed to be mildly afraid of every person she met, but never deferred, never bared her neck. Only her teeth. He could feel the anger stirring in her that stirred in him, a genius in his own right. Him, a manipulator, something  _ special _ and  _ supreme. _ It didn't seem fair that someone else in this hellhole could have that anger as well.

Although, she’d never been cruel to him, never bullied him like the rest. Something was strange about her, something wrong, and he would get to the bottom of it.

It wasn't the various quirks and physical features that set that girl separate. Yes, the crooked teeth, lazy eye, skin a shade  _ too  _ dark, gnarled poofy hair, and abnormally thin body would set a person aside from their peers any day, but this was different. It was what you were made of, not the final look. A pretty quartz was still weaker than the ugliest diamond.

So he strode up to her, other thoughts of widespread study forgotten, while she was writing in some sort of code ( _ really _ , she wrote in about seven and thought nobody had noticed.  _ Idiot _ .) and spoke.

“Anabel.”

She visibly jumped, scared until she realized it was him. Was it just him that she had been calmed down by, or was it that he was a child the same as her?

She looked at him askance, instead of voicing anything, like a  _ normal  _ person would. Her fist grasped her pen tightly, nails digging into skin. Her face burned with questions.

He said something impulsively. “We should be friends.” 

Tom was actually anxious. He didn't know  _ why  _ he had said such a thing. He hadn't tried to make friends since he was a toddler, since it had been made clear he was unwanted. But, he realized, it could help him solve the mystery of Anabel. And God, did he love mysteries.

She stared at him with intelligent, judging eyes. He expected a rejection-- the down curve of her mouth, the previous history of apathy ( _ just like you _ , a voice in his head whispered) and distaste of hers came to mind. 

The impossible happened. Her lips quirked up.

“Friends.” It was the first word she’d said to anyone in days. The mess of a voice was scratchy from disuse. “Let's restart, then. I’m Annabel Juniper. It's nice to meet you.”

She stuck her hand out, and he shook it. Anabel had a firm handshake, especially for a seven year old girl. Was she really a seven year old girl? In his experience, both were horrendous in every way, and not at all with redeeming qualities. 

“Tom Riddle. It's nice to meet you too.” 

She giggled, and for a minute Tom was certain she was mocking him, until she said:

“Friends are nice. I’ve never had one in my life.”

He relaxed minutely from that, but then she continued, “But why is it, Tom Riddle, that you suddenly want to be my friend? I don't trust easily, and I don't like to be bothered. State your intentions or get out of my sight.”

This was possibly the most the girl had ever said in one sitting without an expletive her whole life.

“None of the other children like me. I'm too smart, too freaky. But so are you, so we should stick together.” He lied, the words coming easily.

“You want to be friends with Ugly Ana? Well, I won't stop you.”

She nodded to herself, the frost in her eyes gone instantly as she flipped to a different page in her notebook and continued her writings.

The other children  _ did  _ call her Ugly Ana, on account of ugly scrappy hair and crooked teeth and a big nose, but Tom didn't think she actually cared.

They ate lunch together the next day.

It soon became a habit, they would sit together to avoid bullies and loneliness, and eat meals together.

It was… dare he say? Nice? He didn't have to stake a claim on a completely empty table or scare others away enough to sit somewhere. It was a strategically sound action.

She never spoke as much as the first day, but whenever she spoke it was interesting.

“Do you believe in magic?” She asked softly, one Tuesday dinner.

He looked at the adults close to them. “Witchcraft is a sin.” he recited.

Her eyes called bullshit, but she said nothing. She said nothing for the rest of the day, flashing inquisitive and angry looks the whole time.

He wondered if she was angry at him. He wondered, if he truly cared.

* * *

  
  


He sneaked into her room, once. Her roommate was out playing, and Anabel was reading outside. She had complained about the lack of Dickens and Shakespeare, and was rereading the Bible instead. 

He could tell which bed was hers-- a purpleish pillow, obviously sewn by hand, the sheets made tightly and flowers adorning the walls. Under the mattress he found seven or eight notebooks, all files to the brim. How did she even get them? 

He opened one. Coded. Of course. But another, it was in plain old English. 

Her script was curly but actually pretty legible, unlike most seven year olds. There was care put in each letter, much unlike his own straight and ordinary handwriting.

_ “Mother”. (0878) _

_ Chapter 1: Poltergeist _

_ Early in the morning, the lights of a small house flickered. Small objects started floating around the rooms, glass shattered.  _

_ Ninten woke up, frazzled. As he got out of bed to see what the ruckus was about, a lamp, floating, crashed into him. _

  
  
  


“Mother,” She murmured. 

He whipped around and stared at her. She returned it with a heated glare.

“Don't,” Anabel whispered, “Touch my things.” It was the tone that really sealed the implied threat that she would try to kill  _ Tom _ , of all people.

She ripped the book out of his hand and threw it on her bed. It wrinkled and bounced. Her curly, frizzy hair seemed to get larger as you could practically feel an aura of pure anger surrounding her.

“Get  _ out _ of my room, you little  _ motherfucker! _ ”

The next thing he knew, he was outside and the door jammed shut, despite there being no locks on the doors in the orphanage.

That… hurt. Of course, only a little bit, he really  _ didn't  _ have empathy or feeling or all of that. It was more the shock of the thing. Maybe he could learn from this incident. Yes, he could.

It seemed she knew some of his secrets. She thought she  _ knew  _ him. As if.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I'm sorry,” he intoned the next morning. “I don't know what I was thinking.” As per usual, she angrily stayed quiet. The Silent Treatment. She shoved the lumpy, watery eggs in her mouth without gagging like usual, and walked briskly to school.

They shared the advanced class together. She had known how to read and write before him, but never answered unless called in class, never truly  _ showed  _ the genius that both of them obviously shared.

When he had once asked, she smiled and said nothing. 

It was almost like a joke. Why would anyone hide the fact that they were better than others? It just didn't make sense.

One day, he was accosted by a few of the idiots jealous of him, who were intent on roughing him up.

He was trapped, with only his will left. He'd gotten angry enough, scared enough. And the two started fighting each other instead. Once he realized he could make them do things, he wondered if he could control  _ her _ , too. She never got scared like she should, never  _ obeyed  _ like she should. He wanted to see if he could break her.

It was a summer morning, and he wanted her breakfast. The eggs were cooked well and the bread was warm, the orphanage’s equivalent of a five star breakfast. 

He pressed his will to hers, and instead of bending or pressing back, she walked up to him and slapped him in the face. He rose his hand to hit her back, but she grabbed his wrist quickly. It was surprising, but not entirely unexpected.

“Witchcraft is a sin,” she spat, “remember?”

Witchcraft. This power he had, she thought it was… magic?

Anabel threw his wrist down and gave him the cold shoulder for a week.

It was a typical enough response from the crazy girl. She acted like it was a good punishment or something. As if he really liked to be around her.

Her hair, weirdly enough, looked larger every time she saw him.

* * *

  
  


On New Year's Eve when they were eight, she grabbed his ear and brought them both into his room as he slapped her arm (leaving red marks and bruises that took weeks to fade). 

“I’m going to forgive you for stealing my notebook, mostly because it's bad luck to start the new year with a grudge.”

He rolled his eyes.  _ Luck.  _

She whispered something under her breath. 

“I don't remember where I was going with this. Here,” Ana said in her weird accent, shoving a small, wrapped gift in his face, “Happy birthday. Felíz cumpleaños. Buen cumpleanno.”

Tom unwrapped it suspiciously, taking care not to rip any of the wrapping. Anabel… never spent any of her allowance. So it was strange, that she would spend hers on a box of  _ toffee, _ and  _ wrapping paper _ , for him.

It was ludicrous. She never even talked to him, and here she was, giving up never spent money for a boy she probably didn't even  _ like. _

God. She looked at him unnervingly, obviously gauging his reaction.

“So long, and good night.” she whispered, exiting the room. It seemed a significant phrase, but he could not for the life of him figure out why.

* * *

It was when Tom was nine years old that Anabel brought home a violin. Or a viola. Some stringed instrument like that. She had simpered at the matron in low tones, with pleading eyes and talk of how she wanted to play in the cathedral’s orchestra.

Surprisingly, it did not sound awful.

“Why?” He’d asked.

Her body language said,  _ Just listen. _

Well… it wasn't like he had anything better to do.

She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and began to play. It was a melancholy, off-beat song. But her soul seemed to be in it. Tom had never felt… moved by music. It was remarkable, as Tom had never even liked tunes or melodies at all.

Her eyes, once open, seemed focused, and, for once, not depressed. It was strange, because the song was miserable and depressing. Rather, it gave off a miserable and depressing feel: the song itself wasn't ill-conceived. 

The song ended softly, with her plucking at the strings.

“Music expresses things better than words can,” she murmured softly. Her small fingers ran up and down the instrument's neck.

“Is that all of your savings you used on that thing?” He pretended that song hadn't had power over him. She closed up her case and left the room. She didn't answer the question. 

* * *

  
  
  


“Hello lovely,” she made kissy noises at the rabbit. It was two in the morning.

“You’re such a lovely bunny. Aren't you?” Anabel ran her fingers through the soft, white coat of the rodent.

“Can I call you Marshy? Like marshmallow. You’re so very white… I’ve never had a white rabbit before. I had a grey one, and she was Cinnabun. My brother had a brown one, and she was Cadbury, but my mom called her Rabby. Stupid. It's a stupid name.”

Her face caught more shadows. “I don't have a mother anymore. I used to. Her name was Melinda and she had caramel hair. She wasn't always nice but she was my mom.”

Her hands pet the rabbit harsher as they shook a bit.

“I don't have one. Anabel doesn't have a mother. She’s dead.

…

I used to be someone else. I’m not. I'm not them anymore.”

She kissed the rabbit's head.

Tom was asleep, rooms away.

Anabel wiped the wet spots on Marshy’s back off gently with the back of her sleeve. She sniffed as he did.

“I can't believe my only fucking friend is a bunny… Yikes...”


	2. amassing hydrogen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Hogwarts, continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will give my apologies for the unnecessarily long wait for this chapter. however i have adhd and honestly forgot i was writing this. here, have a badly written diagon alley/sorting chapter. no i do not care about writing things that are "good" this is purely for fun and gay shenanigans. thanks

New Year's, 1937. Tom was watching Anabel draw an exceedingly detailed picture of some renaissance looking woman with huge, bushy hair. The background was a clock. 

“Her name is Hermione. One time she held a woman hostage for a year because she said something rude about Hermione. I love her.”

Tom sighed. That was Anabel’s word quota for the day. She wouldn't say anything else except to insult someone else. Maybe not even then. It was a familiar pattern, annoying as it was. 

In another room, Mrs. Cole talked to a strange redheaded man.

“--freakish, the two of them. The boy’s practically possessed, though we've exorcised him MANY a time, his demonic tendencies always rise up. I don't even want him in here. And the girl! She only talks to yell at the other kids, but her damn violin makes up twice the noise of a hyena! She was like an angel and that boy corrupted her, I swear. He’s like the antichrist, the devil’s son.”

“What sort of things, would you say the boy does? Strange things?”

She nursed another large shot of bourbon.

“There's always destruction anywhere he walks. It's a damn path. There's food missing and he has money I haven't given him. Animals and kids alike-- terrified of him. I think he hurts them. Oh, I've tried time and again to beat the devil out if that boy…”

Blue eyes narrowed. They didn't truly twinkle, as was often described of him. In reality, in the eyes of a man willing to do anything for the greater good, there was a fire that burned azure.

* * *

  
  
“-- We do not  _ tolerate  _ thievery at Hogwarts.”

“Yes, sir.” 

In a nearly identical scene to the parallel timeline, Tom’s wardrobe was set aflame.

The door casually opened, revealing a tiny blonde. “Thomas, I--”

Dumbledore started. He had placed a thin locking charm on the door, so muggles couldn't come in. But this girl… well.

She noticed the redhead immediately upon walking in and flushed, but did not seem surprised.

She grabbed something from Tom’s wardrobe, looking the boy in the eyes, then made to sprint away.

“Stay, my dear girl.” Dumbledore’s voice held no room for disobedience. 

She turned around, sat, and began playing with whatever toy was in the distressed shoebox from Tom’s wardrobe. It was incredibly disrespectful. 

Mr. Riddle snickered. “It seems you falsely accused me of crime, as I have clearly been stolen from in front of your own eyes,” he smiled, “sir.”

The girl whipped her head around and sent a glare at the boy, pouting. 

“My dear girl,” Albus intoned, walking over to her, “won't you sit with your friend?”

“Anabel.” Tom called. She sat on Tom’s bed, uncomfortably close to him. She kicked him.

“Now, none of that, children. Now what was your name, dear? Anabel?”

“Anabel Lee Priscilla Juniper y Vega.”

Tom seemed a bit shocked by all the names she had, but recovered his cool quickly.

“That’s quite the name, my girl!” Albus recognized the name Juniper, and now that he looked at her, he could see the coloring of Otger Juniper, and Maria Vega, former Ravenclaws. “I believe I may have known your parents…”

Anabel turned a glare to him. It seemed that the subject of her parents was a sore one, which… made sense given the fact that she was an orphan. He seized the opportunity, though, and took a glance into her mind. Her natural barriers were advanced for her age, but still weak. He went in undetected, and immediately regretted.

Her mind was a stage. Upon detecting his presence (a scant second after he’d arrived), the music turned dark, the stage tinted red. 

He could hear a cacophony of sounds, all grotesque. The dancers on stage aimed to attack.

Her mind shifted, and he was let out, but not before hearing a fast melody and screaming voice. It was…. in one word, horrifying. A little girl’s mind should not look like that.

It was worse than Tom’s mind, which he had been able to take a quick peek at. It seemed that they were actually friends.

She didn't speak the rest of the time he spent with the two children. Tom spoke for her as their eyes bickered and they hit each other more.

“...So I don't believe we should have a problem locating this ‘Diagon Alley’. London is our home, and we know how to get around. We should be fine, sir.” Tom said smoothly, clearly tired.

Dumbledore left.

The two children parted ways and fell asleep, knowing what was yet to come would surely be interesting. 

* * *

“I think it was my father who was a wizard. He said it was genetic.”

"What makes you think it wasn’t your mother, or better yet, neither of them?”

“Well, if my mother had had magic, she wouldn’t have died, now would she have?”

“Well, both my parents were magic and they died in a fucking fire.”

Tom looked up. First of all, rarely did Anabel swear, and secondly, this was news to him. 

“They did?”

“Yes, due to the fact that I, for some reason that God only knows, remember being the tender age of three, and the fact that remembering seeing your parents burn to death as they try and save you is traumatic or whatever, it’s not something I like to talk about.”

More words than expected, and flippant ones at that.

“I’m… sorry to hear that.”

“It’s whatever.” Anabel eyed the music box she had under her bed. He’d seen it before, or course. It was in the shape of a porcelain angel, played a sweet melody, that he didn’t know the name of. “This music is the only thing I have of them. Everything else burned.”

“How did you survive?”

She grimaced. “Accidental magic. I should have died. I should have stayed dead. Good night.”

* * *

“I think we should get our wands first.” Tom stated matter-of-factly.

“Well, that sucks for you, because I think we should get them last. To serve as a reward.” Anabel nodded sagely.

“A reward for  _ what? _ ” 

She overtly rolled her eyes, and said, “For… making it through a day of  _ shopping _ .”

It made sense, Tom thought, that she would be one to hate shopping, especially given the way she hoarded money.

“Anyway, we have to visit this… Gringotts place. For the Hogwarts allowance.”

The two walked along, trying not to seem like awe-struck muggleborns. Unfortunately, they were, in fact, awe-struck muggleborns. (Sort of.)

Upon reaching the bank, the two realized that they had no clue on how to ask for the allowance. They stood, stupidly, in the middle of the floor. A kindly woman took pity on them.

“Muggleborn?” the dark-haired woman asked. “Don't worry, I can help you. Euphemia Potter.”

“Thank you,” the two chorused, contrasting expressions on their faces.

She walked over to the left, guiding them. “Nagnok takes care of Hogwarts allowances, dears. Now, you're only going to get enough for basic supplies, so don't spend it all foolishly. Ah! Nagnok, we have some more muggleborn children for you.”

“Welcome. Sign your names on these forms, if you are not who you say you are or you're not on the allowance list, you will be cursed. Any questions?” the goblin smiled, sharp and yellowed teeth glinting in the light.

The children muttered denials, signing wobbly names on parchment.

After getting light pouches of silver, the children scoured Diagon Alley for deals, buying used textbooks and robes, weathered hats, bargain potions kits.

Twice, Tom made adults  _ go away _ when trying to sell their wares. Annoying.

Upon being touched by an unfortunate salesman, Anna’s hair seemed to bristle; the long locks seemed to have a mind of its own sometimes. She whipped around and raised her fists.

The offending wizard held his own hands up in surrender, Annabelle’s own cap in the left. “You lost your hat, little miss. Just trying to return it.”

“...Sorry for overreacting. Thank you for finding my hat.” Her head bowed, but she took it a bit too quickly.

Finally, the time came to receive their wands; the one thing that cannot be bought secondhand.

Olivander was a strange man, who absolutely delighted in seeing Anabel. 

“Ah yes, the daughter of Maria Vega and Otger Juniper! I've been expecting you, terrible business what happened to your parents, my condolences.”

“Uh… yeah. What exactly happened to them? It... _was_ a fire, right?” Anabel asked.

“I'm afraid they did perish in a terrible fire…”

After that, he gave her a few wands to wave around, snatching them away each time.

It was quite a few minutes before he finally said, “How about… beech and unicorn hair?”

She waved it, and immediately purple sparks erupted dazzingly out of the wand.

“Wonderful! Twelve inches, slightly springy.”

“This is my wand? What does that mean about me?” she asked.

Ollivander stilled. 

She continued. “Well, the wand chooses the witch, you said? So there must be some correlation between what the wand is made out of and what kind of person you are. Just thought it would be interesting to know.”

“My dear girl, wand lore is a difficult and fascinating branch of study! If you are truly interested, I can recommend you some books, though I must note that it takes years for it all to stick!”

“I don’t know if I’m really interested in making wands, I just thought it would be cool. I would like those books, though, if you have the names.”

And so it was Tom’s turn. Ollivander asked if he was a muggleborn, as the man did not recognize his parents in him. He’d said “yes”, but he was certain that his father had been a wizard. He had to have been… But Ollivander also said that Riddle was not a wizarding name.

It took a long time for Tom to find a wand that fit.

* * *

Flesh zoomed through concrete, a running start to the train platform. Harry breathed slowly, exhaling the excess nervousness from his chest. Here it was. The Hogwarts Express.

It was truly to begin now, his plan. He would either bring Tom Riddle to the light, or kill him. It was a ridiculously complicated work of magic, none helped by his reluctance to actually go through with it.

Hermione and him had discussed this, graphed it, created half of it. It was too late for Fred, Cedric, Professor Dumbledore… in his timeline. In this one, he would make sure they had the best life possible. And, perhaps, that another Harry Potter wouldn't grow up in a cupboard…

He shook his head. Harry knew what he had to do. He expanded his outer magic, searching for one that was familiar, the one which had resided in his skull for years and years.  _ There. _ The magical signature of Voldemort-- no,  _ Tom Riddle _ , was in a near-empty compartment, with a weaker signature. A first year, probably.

God, he hoped Tom wouldn't hurt that kid.

He swept imaginary dust off his robes and made his way to the would-be Dark Lord.

“Hello, would you mind if I sit here?” he asked mildly, poking his head in the door. 

The compartment itself was fairly innocuous, and a small girl with hair that could rival Hermione's sat with one space in between her and the other passenger.

  
  


“I'm not certain that would be the best idea.” Tom (voldemort) Riddle said to him, cautiously. He seemed on guard. His magic gave off a strong vibe that said something like ‘get the fuck away from me’. Harry batted it away absently.

“Sure,” the girl said loudly. “Come in.”

Tom looked bewildered, as if shocked that the girl could speak.

“Thank you,” Harry smiled as he took a seat opposite of the two. “I’m Hadrian Peverell, it's a pleasure to meet you.”

There. A coherent response, thank god. This younger body of his was suspect to a lot worse emotional and mental reactions, regardless of his mature memories and magic. 

“You as well. I'm Tom Riddle,” Riddle announced with all the brevity of an eleven year old boy, “and this is Anabel Juniper.”

Anabel held out her hand, and he took it, aiming to kiss it as was wizarding custom, but she shook it instead. Small, cold, hands. A strangely firm handshake for an eleven year old girl.

She sat down and immediately began writing in a notebook. So much for interaction.

“Do you two know what house you’d like to be in?” Harry asked.

“I’ve heard good things about Slytherin, and I think she’s more of a Ravenclaw. How about you?” Tom answered for the both of them. Did he do that… often? It didn't seem like she much cared. Merlin, had Riddle indoctrinated this girl so early? Harry wasn't sure if Tom and this Anabel were well-acquainted.

Who  _ was  _ this girl? On one hand, Harry hadn’t heard or seen of her from Dumbledore or his memories, but on the other, the level of interaction seemed deeper than having just met… Perhaps she was scouted when Tom went shopping, and dropped after being sorted? But that wouldn't make sense, he knew that Ravenclaws and Slytherins had a working relationship… A Puff or Gryff, then?

“I think I might be a Ravenclaw as well,” Harry tried. It was a safe choice, out of the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, but not one that would seem inferior to the boy. “I like learning new things.”

Riddle nodded, and fidgeted for a moment, picking up a Charms textbook (third-hand, by the looks of it, honestly) and reading intently.

Harry stared. Two first years, not even in school yet… studying? Ravenclaw and Slytherin, indeed. Even Hermione hadn’t been so studious on her first ride… Well, she had been looking for Trevor.

Harry knew better than to continue a conversation that died like that, and instead took out a book of his own. It was some muggle time travel theory book, with a plain book cover and it was mostly incomprehensible. Harry caught Tom’s eyes flickering up at him every so often, a familiar expression on his face. _Ah,_ Harry thought. _Good old 1930’s racism._ The kid had probably never even talked to someone not white, let alone had to treat them as an equal. Harry was no stranger to glances of hatred from his skin color, nor overt attempts to come off as non-racist. A red-hot wave of anger passed through him. He started to do breathing exercises. It wouldn't do to hurt someone just for staring.

Harry eventually lost himself gazing out the window until the trolley came, then buying little snacks for the three of them.

The two first years didn't know how to respond to that, looking at each other strangely. It took some convincing, but the two finally took the food and thanked him.

Anabel seemed of the mind that since Harry bought her food, she was obligated to speak up, which made him feel relieved. He hated awkward silences.

“What are you reading?” she grated out, a grimace on her face.

Right. Harry didn't really have an answer for that. 

“It’s an old history book,” he lied. “About the Goblin Rebellions.”

“Interesting.” Annabel said, face straight. 

“What about you? Are you taking notes or something?” Harry asked, genuinely curious. She’d scrawled in her notebook excessively for about 20 minutes straight.

She flipped the book around to show it to him. It was a drawing of… oh. It was a picture of him.

It was very good, but  _ very weird _ . 

“I drew you, because you're a new subject.” she elaborated.

‘What the hell,’ he thought to himself. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't think of a single thing  _ to  _ say.

“Anabel here has a propensity to having very little social graces,” Riddle interjected. “I apologize now, and in advance for any other, hijinks, Hadrian.” he smiled. It was fake, but Harry was relieved.

“It's no problem, um, and it’s a very good picture. Thank you?”

“You don't actually have to thank me for being creepy. I… apologize.” Anabel grit out. “Also, I don't like talking to strangers, anymore, so I'm sorry for the… standoffishness as well.”

She didn't like talking to strangers,  _ anymore?  _ Interesting, probably Riddle doing some asinine dictator-like thing to her.

“Well, we might be in the same house, so we won't be strangers?” Harry tried. 

“That’s a logical conclusion, I guess… Some say that a stranger is just a friend you don't know yet. I mean, I don't actually believe that, but I'm sure someone out there does.”

“Indeed…”

Anabel paused, trying, it seemed, to find a spark of conversation. “Would you like to see my notebook?” She asked, ignoring Tom’s incredulous look.

“Erm, sure,” He said.

She flipped to the first page, sitting next to him to give a better view. Most of the pictures were observations or sketches, mostly of an orphanage, other children, or Tom, but Harry noticed a lot of doodles and writings that she skipped over. So she did know him, from that orphanage… no wonder Riddle had dropped her.

“This is a Thomas after stealing my eggs, this is a hand, this is a rabbit, this is another Thomas, that’s me, that’s me with a hat, this is Ophelia from Hamlet, Juliet from, well. Romeo and Juliet.”

Her enthusiasm about art reminded Harry, mildly, of Dean Thomas, but her hand seemed more practiced despite being younger. The Shakespeare characters were kind of weird, but he supposed everyone had a hobby.

“You're very good,” he assured her. 

Her face flushed pink. “Thanks.” The blonde returned to doodling, but less focused and far more cartoonish. “Do you… like to draw?”

Harry winced. He was  _ awful  _ at drawing, could barely make out a stick figure if his life depended on it. “Not really, I’m no good at that stuff. I do like reading though, and quidditch.”

“Oh, what position do you play? Or do you just watch?” 

Apparently the girl was versed in wizarding culture a little, at least. A halfblood, perhaps? But in a muggle orphanage... “I’m a seeker. That means I try and catch the snitch--”

“I know what a seeker is. Catches the golden snitch, which is basically a tiny flying trump card. Maybe a jackpot for a more apt description. Didn't know they had little league quidditch, though, ha.”

Definitely a Ravenclaw, with that vocabulary. “No, it's not formal or anything, I just played at home with neighbors,” he lied. He couldn't exactly say that he had played at Hogwarts before de-aging into a ten year old who looked just wrong enough to make him take a second look in the mirror. He looked more like a Peverell than a Potter now, he supposed, having awoken as some supposed-to-be-dead wizard kid in a hospital with an unfamiliar name. That kid’s memories kept floating about, pulling him to keep habits he’d never started, asking to act more childish, or more pureblooded. It was extremely grating.

The conversation petered off at that, falling into a surprisingly amiable silence. Riddle’s eyes floated to him every so often, (calculating,  _ evil _ ) but Harry was determined to ignore it.

By the time everybody needed to change into robes, Harry had learned no more about the puzzling duo, other than that the Annabel girl clearly had no problems staring out the window, motionless, for longer than an hour.

She nudged Riddle (nudging  _ Voldemort _ , Merlin help her) and flicked her eyes to the door. Tom did not seem very interested and continued reading about Egyptian wizardry and how it shaped modern spells (and yes, Harry did do a double and triple take at that. Merlin. What kind of literature preferences…).

“Perhaps we should leave for a few minutes, let the ladies change first?” Harry offered.

“There’s another girl in here? I didn't know invisibility spells had gotten so advanced!” Anabel said.

Harry and Tom both offered a tight smile.

“Guess it wasn’t so funny. Well, if you’re going, then… go.”

They did.

“So, you two are… good friends?” Harry said. He did not know how to start a conversation with someone who didn't want to be in one.

“Annabel and I are very close, yes. No, we are not romantically inclined. I have known her for many years.” The look on Tom’s face indicated that these statements had been oft-repeated. 

“Oh, yeah, of course, I was just, wondering.”

“Wonder no more. We were… neighbors.”

Neighbors? Harry took that to mean that the girl had also lived at the orphanage. This was… rather unexpected. 

Harry nodded. “Where are you two from?”

“London.” Tom’s face was closed off. “And you?”

Harry scratched his neck. “The Peverell house is unplottable, but its close to Godric’s Hollow, so… West Country, I suppose. I have been to London, though…”

Tom nodded seriously. 

The door opened. The girl was now fully dressed, gave a solid nod to Tom, and then walked away from the room.

Harry changed quickly, not wanting little Voldemort to see his body. He did see the other boy's in passing, however; pale, bruised, with too many scars for a child. Harry felt his heart go out, having looked very similar during his first time on the Hogwarts Express, but quickly vanished the thought. He was here to stop Voldemort, to stop all the death that he would bring, not to pity him. 

Once they were all dressed and back in the compartment, it was silent again. Anabel’s quill made scratching noises, and there was the occasional turn of a page, but it was so  _ quiet.  _

Harry would just have to bear with it for the rest of the ride. 

It was fairly late once the train arrived at Hogwarts, and Harry had the distinct displeasure of reliving the back-to-school feast as a first year. 

But stepping inside, for the first time, again… He felt the castle welcome him back home again, for the first time. It lifted his spirit so much, he could've wept-- he and Hermione had been in hiding for quite a bit before the ritual was complete. 

It was a bit strange for having another teacher to guide him other than McGonagall, but otherwise, it was nearly identical. His breath still caught upon seeing the charmed ceiling, the vibrancy of the Great Hall. 

He could see the awe in little Voldemort’s eyes, and hoped that he wouldn't have to kill that child.

The girl sat on the stool, hat much too large for her head. She sat there for about a minute, seemingly agitated. 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” The hat shouted. Harry couldn't help the look of shock on his face if he tried. He glanced over, only to see Tom gritting his teeth. 

Oh, Harry understood why he had never heard of the girl now. Tom must have refused to interact with her for her sorting. Yes, that made sense...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i AM going to try and post chapter three soonish because its pretty much complete theres just this one like agonizing scene that i cant seem to write. anyway later hope everyone is doing well


	3. hydrogen spinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> welcome to "intro to gay shenanigans". we will be introducing another oc. please note that this story is full of bullshit. thank you kings for your patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry again for the wait! unfortunately it is always going to be like this and i will never change. along with writing this fic, i also write for two dungeons and dragons campaigns, and i have extremely bad adhd. if you're interested in my writing one of those campaigns is available to listen to as a podcast called dungeons & dykes . also please welcome to the show a NEW lesbian

Dianthus Gaylord was eleven again. The world was different, her family was different, but she still had the same name she used to have. She was human, this time; from what she had heard, elves were a fairy tale, and didn’t quite fit the description of what she knew elves to be. Half elves, like her previous self? Don’t even joke.

By the time Dianthus was eleven the last time, her family had died in a great fire that had destroyed the west half of Frostwood in the middle of the night. 

Here, though, her father passed away from a disease that Dianthus  _ knew _ a Greater Restoration would’ve fixed. If only she were a cleric instead of a sorcerer… if only the magic in this world was simple.

She could still feel magic. It was just different. Very different, she thought, as her mother explained that she was a witch and so was Dianthus. Her father wasn’t a witch, or a wizard (the words witch and wizard were more akin to a sorcerer, anyway), or whatever. 

Dianthus would be going to magic school come September.

Maybe it would be nice, going to a new school where magic was taught, instead of learnt in dreams after a battle, or magically having to choose which spells to prepare from a list that only exists in your mind. 

Dianthus glanced at a lock of hair in front of her eyes. It was long, far too long for her liking, and a shade of orange that had her desperately missing her pink locks. But women were expected to wear their hair in a certain way, here, and they always had to wear skirts or dresses, too. It was insufferable.

The trip to Diagon Alley was life changing. It was almost as if she were back in the capital city of Noke, perusing the merchant district with the rest of her comrades in battle. 

She perked up, then her mood dropped, thinking of her old friends. Friends she would likely never see again.

“What’s wrong, pumpkin?” Her mom asked.

Dianthus hadn’t realized her somber mood had been noticed. “Nothing! I just thought of something sad, but this is really beautiful!”

The day continued, and finally, Dianthus was on her way to get her wand. She thought that whatever it ended up being, it could never live up to her old cuprite focus, a red stone encased in white tulipwood. 

Ollivander was a strange man. She tried wands for what felt like hours-- until the redwood with dragon heartstring wand came. It was 13 ½ inches, springy. The moment Dianthus touched it was the moment she knew-- 

This world would need to look out for her.  
  


* * *

  
The train ride was boring. Dianthus spent the whole time chattering to students who clearly couldn’t care less about her. That didn’t matter. She would find people to become friends with. She would find comrades akin to the ones she had died for once.

She didn't think she would ever marry again. The wound from her wife's death still hit too hard.

It was an adult dragon, a blue one, and they'd been oh-so underprepared for it-- in fact, the two of them and the rest of the wedding party had been travelling back to the capital for the honeymoon; so soon after that the effect of Ceremony was still in place.

The bonus to armor class had meant nothing to a dragon's breath weapon, but the lightning damage was too much for her wife; a frail bard… Oh, if only she had stood in the back of the line like usual! If only she hadn't stood next to Dianthus, convinced that Ceremony and her new wife would protect her…

Shamefully, Dianthus had also died in that same battle. The wyrmings had showed up at some point and their party really couldn't escape; not to mention the horror of losing your newlywed wife slash best friend.

But that was in the past. As they arrived at the castle-- and Oh! the castle! It was beautiful, enchanting, and felt safe and welcoming magically.

Dianthus shared a boat with two boys who seemed to point their noses up at her, as they didn't speak to her at all.

Then they arrived inside, which was astonishingly gorgeous, and then finally the deputy headmaster called her name.

"Gaylord, Dianthus!" A few people laughed at her name. That was fine.

As they placed a hat on her head--

"Oh ho! A reincarnate, I see. Brave, certainly, but you're nothing if not loyal. Gotta be HUFFLEPUFF!"

And she'd smiled.

But they announced a new name,  _ her name…. _

"Anabel Juniper!"

The name of her wife. And upon looking up, the spitting image of her.

A minute's pause, and then, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

* * *

Tom Riddle watched in horror as his best friend was sorted into the wrong house.

How would they eat breakfast together now? Or tell each other stories past midnight, or take the blame for each other's crimes? How would Tom hear the irritating twang of the violin, or her stupid singing voice in the evening?

How?

He glared at the Hufflepuff table, glared at them for stealing Anabel, who was  _ his,  _ and nobody else's, damn it!

The boy from the train stared at him and he got ready to smack the stupid look off his face, when he whispered, "Sorry, Riddle."

The rage he felt slipped away. It wasn't this fancy boy's fault that Anabel had been stolen. And he  _ had _ sat with them on the train the whole way…

Hadrian Peverell was sorted to Slytherin. A few minutes later, so was Tom Riddle.

He would do Great Things, he thought. And he would do them without her.

* * *

Anabel Juniper was cut out for any house she wanted. She could've been Ravenclaw, Slytherin, certainly Gryffindor. But she chose Hufflepuff.

Hufflepuff, the reject house. The accepting house. The one where the loyal go. And she is nothing if not loyal, to people if not ideals.

She has read this story before, and she knows better than anyone where she will be happiest.

There is a girl with strawberry blonde hair staring at her.

She introduces herself; Dianthus Gaylord. A name she'd be hard pressed to forget, honestly.

It’s not like Anabel is looking for new friends here. She knows who she is and, to an extent, what she wants--

But Dianthus is looking at Anabel like Anabel looks at the drawings for her old family, quietly and longing.

"I hope we can be friends, too."

And the girl brightens.

* * *

In her dreams, Anabel sees her family, sees her siblings and her parents, sees her best friends and intellectual rivals and the yellow of the house she used to live in.

She dreams of songs, she dreams of things that may be, things that are, and things that were.

She dreams of green and yellow, dreams of a bloody red and she wonders if she will ever have a normal dream.

Anabel always sees things best not seen. Anabel  _ sees. _

* * *

Dianthus dreams of Anabel. Anabel's songs, her sharp tongue, her purple adventuring clothes, her dark eyes.

The way Dianthus could feel every emotion that came off of her, from anger to indifference to glee… Could feel the love they shared.

And she woke feeling empty.

* * *

Tom Riddle dreamed of the future; he dreamed of being the best, dreamed of proving everyone wrong, dreamed of having everything.

He dreamed of having a best friend.

* * *

Hadrian Peverell dreamed of Tom Riddle. Dreamed of Voldemort.

He dreamed of when he was Harry Potter.

His mind couldn't decide what Riddle was. An enemy, a friend, a stranger, a…

His eyes shot open.

* * *

Tom wakes in the morning, and he goes to breakfast. He does not know what he expects, but it certainly isn't Anabel waiting for him outside of the Great Hall and sitting with him at the Slytherin table.

She ate her eggs and smiled.

Hadrian Peverell sat to his other side, silent.

Everyone at the Slytherin table stared at Anabel, who pretended not to notice very hard.

"Shouldn't you be at the Hufflepuff table?" One of the older Slytherins eyed her.

"Should I?" She asked. She took another piece of bacon. "Is there a rule that says I have to sit there?"

"Well, no, but--"

"So what's the problem? You've got a lot of nerve, trying to interrupt my breakfast." She huffed.

Hadrian tried very hard to remain stoic, laughter trapped in his ribcage.

The Hufflepuff Head of House went up to her at some point to give Anabel her school schedule, and politely implied that she would be better off at the Hufflepuff table.

Tom knew the second Anabel had gotten angry at this.

"So Professor, are you telling me that upon being sorted into the house of the loyal, I should abandon my best friend and talk to other people? That's what you're saying?"

" _ No,  _ but--"

"Because you know, Tom here is my  _ best  _ friend, and I would just  _ hate  _ if we couldn't eat together anymore."

Somehow, Anabel did not get in trouble for this. 

* * *

Hufflepuffs and Slytherins share two classes, Astronomy and Transfiguration. She sits by Tom in both classes, and Hadrian Peverell always sits nearby as well. 

The dark haired boy always seems to be following Tom around. And Tom is sick of it! He is trying to become the most powerful wizard ever, to spite every person who underestimates him, and Hadrian “just call me Harry” Peverell is always watching him. It just pisses Tom off.

When he mentions as much to Anabel, all she says is a muffled, “Maybe he’s got a crush on you.”

Tom makes a choking sound. 

“Besides,” she continues, “Dianthus Gaylord follows me around like a lost puppy. I think they want to be our friends.”

“Dianthus  _ Gaylord _ cannot be as annoying as Hadrian. That boy simply does not make sense to me,”

Anabel looks Tom, dark eyes piercing. “I think you two understand each other more than you know.”

* * *

The thing is this: Anabel Juniper is a seer. She can see the past, the present, and to some extent, the future.

She feels things. She knows things that she should not know. She can see thousands of possibilities and worlds and it gives her a headache.

On good days, the visions are weak and she is free to interact with the world as she wishes. She is very talkative.

On a bad day, she can’t tell reality from vision. She will not speak, scared to respond to that which is not real. She will hold on to someone else magically and go through the motions.

The music helps. Playing the viola helps her concentrate, helps ground her. When no one is around, she will sing.

Today, all she sees is Harry Potter. His life. His death. His possibilities. She knows Hadrian used to be him, struggles not to say anything.

There is a flash with each step she takes. She walks, unsteady.

Dianthus Gaylord grabs her arm. “This way,” she says.

Anabel is shaking.

“Can I help? Are you okay?” The girl says.

“Can you… sing?” Anabel drones, weakly.

Something in the warm brown eyes, and then.

And then she sings one of Anabel’s favorite songs.

“I believe the morning sun…”

Suddenly, clarity. “How do you know that song?” Anabel demands. How did Dianthus know Pollyanna? It wasn’t a popular song back in her world, so unless Dianthus was another reincarnate…

The girl blushed. “One of my friends, this was her favorite song. I thought I might sing it for you.”

Huh.

* * *

Dianthus is trying Very Hard to make friends with Anabel Juniper, but she is making it... difficult.

She remembered how tricky it was the first time; Anabel had been cagey and rude the first few weeks they’d known each other. Dianthus had to prove her worth as a sorcerer and as a person. 

Dianthus had seen a few of Anabel Juniper’s shows before she and two others had barged into her home, asking Dianthus and her roommate, Muilla, to join their party and raid a necromantic themed dungeon outside of the city, citing some kind of prophecy that bound the five of them together.

Come to think of it, Anabel-the-Bard  _ had  _ gotten considerably less chilly towards her when she had knitted that first scarf…

Back to the point; Anabel spent all her time with one Tom Riddle and Hadrian Peverell.

Dianthus couldn’t blame her, really. Anabel was deeply attached to those she thought of as hers.

But Dianthus wanted to get to know the girl. The other Hufflepuffs were nice, certainly, but they weren’t…. Her.

Dianthus huffed, and wrote her parents home; asking for three new colored yarns…

* * *

Tom stared blankly at the girl in front of him.

“Hello, I bring gifts!” She said, ignoring the stares of everyone at the Slytherin table.

“Gifts.” Hadrian states flatly, looking at her much the same as Tom.

  
  


“Scarves!” Dianthus brandished a bag with what appeared to be knitted fabric. “It’s October now, and it’s starting to get chillier… so I knitted some scarves for you!”

“Why?” Hadrian asked.

Dianthus’ face fell. “Well, I-- I just. Wanted to be friendly. If you’re… not interested, don’t worry about it--”

“Thank you, Dianthus,” Anabel said, eyes slightly hazy (not abnormal for her).

And just like that, Dianthus lit up again. She took out a lilac scarf and gently handed it to Anabel as Tom and Hadrian exchanged looks. “I know you said purple was your favorite color…”

“...And Tom! A nice mint green and viridian pattern for you, wasn’t sure of your favorite color, but I might as well go with your house color! Hadrian… or do you prefer Harry, I’ve heard it both ways-- A nice emerald to match your eyes! I guess you both just got different shades of green… Well, I made a pink one for myself, it’s sort of my favorite color, I was hoping we could do friendship scarves… Wow! Look at the time. I’m gonna go right now.” The girl sped off, leaving the three holding knitted scarves in different states of disbelief.

Anabel frowned, something about the color of her scarf--

\--And she was in a fabric shop with a pink haired woman with pointed ears, eye catching on a lilac fabric, soft and perfect for the dress… The woman saw it as well, and perked up, draping it across her arm and nodding furiously. She smiled, could feel the laughter bubbling out of her mouth and casually grabbing the woman’s hand--

“Anabel. Anabel!”

Anabel shook her head, eyes wide. She noticed the Great Hall almost empty, and Hadrian’s hand on her arm.

“Are you okay?” He said. Tom was also staring at her. 

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Did  _ that _ little--”

She shook her head and stood, woozy but unwilling to show it, and began to walk to class.

Who was that woman? 


End file.
